


The Princess Bride, by V. Hugo

by Murf1307



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, The Princess Bride- William Goldman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, F/M, Fractured Fairy Tale, Gen, M/M, Miracles, Multi, Swordfighting, True Love, rodents of unusual size
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 19:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/840751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Murf1307/pseuds/Murf1307
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gavroche is sick. Eponine reads him her favorite book, about a girl named Cosette and a boy named Grantaire, who are not in love, but find true love in others along the way to their happy endings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bride

“I’m too olb for Difney movies, Ponibe,” Gavroche complained, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back on the pile of pillows Eponine nested him in.

“You said you were bored.” Eponine bustled around the apartment, making tea and setting up something to cook slowly on the stove. “So we can watch a Disney movie, or…” She paused, bringing up her hand to tap at her mouth. “You know what, I have a better idea.”

She slipped down the hall and back in less than a minute, holding a large book. In gold lettering across the front cover, it said  _The Princess Bride, by V. Hugo._

“I found this in the library when I was little. Azelma used to love it.”

“If dis a  _girl_  book?” Gavroche asked dubiously.

“There’s monsters and swordfights and fisticuffs and miracles. It’s the best story in the world, I can promise you that.” Eponine pulled a chair from the kitchen and sat down next to Gavroche on the couch. “You wanna hear it?”

“I gueff fo.”

“All right, then.”

And she began to read. “Chapter One: The Bride…”

———————————————

When Cosette was five years old, the most beautiful woman in the world was a prostitute called Favourite (this was after prostitution, but prostitution, as you know, is the world’s oldest profession). Favourite had long dark hair and a pale complexion, and was made very rich by the men who called on her. Unfortunately, age and venereal disease took their toll, and by the time Cosette was twelve, Favourite had slipped down the ranks to about number twenty-five. But she was rich, and she could afford the best miracle men and physicians the world had to offer (this was after physicians, but before miracle men fell out of fashion).

When Cosette was twelve, the most beautiful woman in the world was a young factory worker. Her name is since lost to time, but many men still remember her bright red hair and hourglass body, and the laughter in her brown eyes. She slipped down to seventeenth by the time Cosette was sixteen, due to an accident in which she lost all of that glorious hair.

At sixteen, Cosette herself was in the top fifty on potential alone. However, she was rather poor — her mother was a former prostitute, and her father a disgraced mayor-turned-tree-pruner (this was after mayors). They managed as they could on a little dairy farm in the ruralities of Florin (which is of course near to France, though this was before France).

But Cosette was happy — that was the thing that pushed her so far up the scale. Oh, her blonde curls and pale blue eyes certainly helped, and her fine teeth when she smiled, but it was the happiness that glowed inside her that made her truly beautiful.

She was happy because of her father, and her mother, and her horse (named Horse as a joke that stuck unfortunately well), and the Farm Boy.

The Farm Boy’s name was Grantaire, and he lived with Cosette and her parents in the little farmhouse. He was Cosette’s dearest friend — many a time he had drawn lovely pictures of her in the sand of a nearby riverbed, as he dreamed of someday becoming an artist.

But they had little money, and Grantaire was too proud to ask to spend it on things with which he could learn to paint. So he was left with the sand and a twig, and he grew melancholy as the years passed.

Cosette, of course, did her best to comfort him.

“Grantaire! Grantaire, come look at this,” she would cry out, bursting into the house. She always had something to show him, and her smile was sometimes the only thing that could soothe his soul when he felt dark about the world.

On one such occasion, she was holding a scrap of paper in her hand — her one pride was that she could read, and that she read very well.

It said:

“SHIP BOUND FOR SOUTH AMERICA: CAPTAIN REQUESTS PRESENCE OF AN ARTIST TO DOCUMENT EXPEDITION.”

(This was after South America)

“You could go!” Cosette cried out happily. “You could have an adventure, and make art for a living — your dreams, Grantaire, they could come true!”

Grantaire considered it for a moment. “But what of you? You would be alone.”

“Bah,” Cosette said. “I will live. And you will write me every day, and I shall write you back, and someday you will be rich and famous and you can come back to visit us.”

And that was that. Grantaire could never refuse Cosette — he did not believe anyone truly could, when she was so joyful — and so he asked leave of her father and mother to go. They gave him a little money, because for all their poverty, Jean Valjean and Fantine were always generous, and he packed his few things and set off for America.

He wrote, as Cosette had made him promise, and his sentences were often ended with “I miss you terribly”: “It is raining to-day, and I miss you terribly.” “There was a cat on my windowsill this morning, and I miss you terribly.”

Cosette grew ever more joyful, and ever more beautiful, because she knew, she just  _knew,_ that all of Grantaire’s dreams were going to come true.

There was more work to be done with him gone; often, Cosette would bring milk into town herself, though it had been Grantaire’s task before. Many of the girls her age envied her beauty and refused to speak to her — though all she spoke of was Grantaire, and how he was coming on, and  _look, there is a picture in this letter, see?_

The exception to this rule was called Musichetta. Musichetta was nearly as beautiful as Cosette, and they made a dashing pair whenever Cosette came to town. They were a study in contrasts, for Musichetta’s skin was dark and her hair and eyes even darker; where Cosette’s complexion was pale and unmarked, Musichetta was freckled even darker from the sun.

Mainly, as we said before, Cosette spoke of Grantaire. In comparison, Musichetta was in love, and she spoke at length about the men she loved.

One was a young miracle-man called Joly (as contrary to popular image, every wise old miracle man was once a nervous young one), who had dark auburn hair and an air of hypochondria about him. He was almost a physician, but bloodletting and leeching very much disturbed him, so he stuck to traditional, non-invasive remedies.

The other was Bossuet, who was practically attached to Joly at the hip. He was learning the law, though there was only a little need for lawyers in Florin, and he was as dark of complexion as Musichetta was.

The three of them were scandalously in love. Since there was no way to marry three people together — an oversight, perhaps, of man — and Musichetta refused to marry one and not the other, the three lived together in a house nearer to the castle, because Joly was apprenticed to the King’s personal Miracle Man, who was getting on in years and found himself wanting to retire. The pay was enough to get by on, and Musichetta was just as happy as Cosette; in fact, on many days, one could not call one more beautiful than the other.

By now, both were in the top ten, averaging at sharing eighth when they were together.

Then, the letters stopped — Grantaire had to board his ship to America, after all — and Cosette fretted. Musichetta comforted her, and she was mainly still happy.

“She is as beautiful as you,” Jean Valjean said to his wife.

“Oh, no, she is much more beautiful than I ever was, even when I was young, and time has not been kind to me,” Fantine replied, smiling.

Valjean shook his head. “You are beautiful, and she is beautiful, and I love you both.”

This was the only argument they generally had; they were calm and steady as the sea, and they loved each other quietly and privately, and were happy.

So Cosette was happy, and she was beautiful, and all was well.

Unfortunately, tragedy strikes most often those who are least prepared for it. A letter came, but not from Grantaire. For the first time in her life, Cosette wished she could not read, for it said:

 _It gives us great pains to report that the Montreuil-sur-Mer_ — this was the ship Grantaire had taken —  _was attacked and overrun by a ship belonging to the Dread Pirate Roberts._

And everyone knew that the Dread Pirate Roberts left no survivors.

Cosette cried out in anguish once, and retreated to her room. For three days she wept and languished and lay in agony for her grief. On the morning of the fourth day, though, she rose quietly and washed her face and left her room.

In joy, Cosette had been beautiful. In the wake of her loss, she was radiant.

At nearly seventeen, she had been transfigured into the most beautiful woman in the world. Her eyes were deeper and wiser with sorrow, and the blush of youth in her cheek was tempered a paler pink. She was no longer a child.

“Grantaire is gone from me,” she said softly to her mother and father.

And she resolved not to speak of him again.


	2. The Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King’s health is failing. Prince Humperdinck must soon take a woman to wife, and Count Montparnasse knows exactly which woman he should choose.

Cosette’s radiance had always drawn admirers – it was one of the reasons that the girls beyond Musichetta had hated her so.

And it was no different now that she was the most beautiful woman in the world; though she was colder now to her admirers than before, she was still kind, and rarely told them in so many words to leave her be when she brought milk to market.

It was at market one day when she was first approached by Prince Humperdinck’s right hand, the young Count Montparnasse.

 

Montparnasse had been instated as a count by royal decree some years before, when he hunted once by accident with Prince Humperdinck and proven himself as brilliantly wicked as he was brilliantly beautiful.  He clad himself in the finest silks and velvets, and was perhaps one of the first holders of good sartorial taste (this was before fashion, and only just after taste), and he rarely walked among commoners anymore.

But today was a different day than any before.

The King’s health was failing, despite the work of his Miracle Man.  And since Florin always ought to have an heir, and it seemed that soon the heir would become king, the Prince needed to take a wife.

Montparnasse wrinkled his nose at the thought of marriage, cupid’s-bow lips thinning and whitening briefly, but it was how royalty worked.  So the prince must wed, and the woman he wed needed to be beautiful and did not need to be much more than that.

A commoner, in fact, would do – as Florin’s royal court had always been relatively small and its nobles few in number and  with Guilder’s princess out of the question – and so Montparnasse took to the streets.

Cosette was at market, and had been in conversation with Musichetta for a quarter of an hour when the Count strode up to them.

Musichetta’s face hardened perceptibly at his approach.  “Count,” she said, voice brittle.

“Mademoiselle Musichetta,” Montparnasse acknowledged her with equal distaste.  “I do not believe I have ever made the acquaintance of your friend here.”

“I’m called Cosette,” Cosette said, posture wary but voice sweetly chill.  “And I can speak for myself.”

Montparnasse’s lips split into a smile.  “I am Count Montparnasse, and I do not believe I have ever set eye on a more beautiful woman.”

“I know your name,” Cosette replied coldly.  “You and the Prince helped convince the King to fire the miracle man and his apprentice.  State your business, Your Grace.”

She was unfailingly polite, but made no attempt to hide her disdain for the man.

Montparnasse quirked his lips.  “He’ll like you, I think.”

“Excuse me?”

“Prince Humperdinck is searching for a bride.”  Montparnasse took his time looking her over.  “And I believe you would do nicely.”

Cosette was quiet.  “Does the prince generally use others to propose for him?”

Montparnasse laughed.  “You may expect him to come himself in a few days to make an official proposal.”

“Hm.”  Cosette tilted her head, birdlike.  “Tell him nothing of whether or not I’ve got any opinion of him at all, as I do not beyond that he has caused one of my friends to lose his job.”

“I will be certain, little bird.  I’m sure we will see each other again.” 

And with that, he spun his cane and left, leaving two very bemused women in his wake.

Musichetta turned to Cosette.  “You’re not planning on accepting the proposal, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

—-

Sure enough, a few days later, the Prince arrived at Cosette’s father’s farm, riding one of his Great White horses.  Humperdinck was built like a barrel – barrel-chested, barrel-thighed, and the like – and Cosette found him completely unattractive to look upon.

“Mademoiselle Valjean,” the Prince began.  “I have come to betroth you to me, that we may be wed.”

Cosette stood tall.  “What advantage does wedding you give me?”

“Why, fame, and riches beyond any compare.”

(This was not precisely true; Guilder, the neighboring kingdom, was more wealthy, having built its economy around mining jewels rather than agriculture)

“And if I refuse?” she asked, still cold to him.

“You die.”

Jean Valjean stood when he heard the Prince speak so to his daughter.  “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Papa, please be calm.”

Cosette thought about it for a few very long moments.  “I am already dead inside; my only joys are my family and Musichetta and her men.  If I am to wed you, they must be provided for.”

“They will live as well as they may desire, Mademoiselle.”

“Then I will marry you, as you have asked.”  Cosette nodded.

The prince took her hand and kissed it.  “I will send a carriage to bring you to the castle tomorrow; you will be the Princess of Hammersmith, and you have much to learn.”

And then he left, riding off on his White.

Fantine approached her daughter.  “Do you think you will love him?” she asked.

“No,” Cosette said mildly.  “But I believe I will manage well enough.”

—-

And so it came to pass that Cosette moved into the castle.  The Queen took her under her wing as soon as she arrived, and she proved a quick study and was both naturally graceful and naturally witty.

She did not speak much to her fiancé, as he spent nearly all of his time hunting, but Musichetta came to the castle often enough, and now and then Cosette could sneak her way back to town to spend an afternoon with her and Jolllly and Bossuet.

“For once it seems Bossuet’s luck has turned,” Joly said one afternoon.  “He has been working with several other law students on a proposal to the King regarding Florin’s 500th Anniversary and the celebrations thereof.”

Bossuet blushed.  “Bah, knock on wood, Joly, I wouldn’t call our risks over yet.”

Musichetta and Cosette laughed, as sure enough when they went to play cards, Bossuet’s luck was as foul as ever.

Beyond her friendships with these three, though, her interaction with the world outside the castle was very much restricted.  She was permitted daily to ride out into the forests owned by the crown, but they were always empty.

One day, she was putting away Horse’s tack when someone ran into her.

“Oh dear God,” he said (this was after God), and Cosette turned and met his glance, only to nearly drop the tack she was holding.

He was beautiful.  Lean and lovely, with freckles all over him –

—-

“Ib dis a  _kissing_ book?” Gavroche asked, interrupting Eponine as she read.

Eponine laughed.  “Didn’t I say this book was about monsters and swordfights and miracles and  _true love_?”

Gavroche wrinkled hi s nose.  “I dobe like kissing books.”

“Trust me, you’ll like this book, be it a kissing book or not.”

—-

He was lean and lovely, with freckles all over him, and Cosette, quite unexpectedly, fell in love with him.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice high-pitched and higher-pitched from fear.  “Please don’t take it too hard, your Highness, I didn’t mean it.”

“I – no, it’s fine,” she said, her lips quirking into a smile.

This boy with whom she was speaking was the lead stablehand, Marius Pontmercy.  He’d been a noble’s son once, but had been disowned by his grandfather several years before – he had taken up working for Humperdinck and his horses to pay the bills, and had simply never left.

And Marius Pontmercy, in the moment his eyes met those of the newly-minted Princess, fell just as absurdly in love with her as she had with him.

Of course, Cosette did not know this, and they parted ways in a moment.

However, she did find herself riding more often, in the hopes that she might run into him at the stables.  She didn’t know his name and dared not ask, so in her head she called him Stable Boy and imagined what it would be like to see him again.

On one such unplanned ride, however, Cosette’s attention was grabbed by the presence of three men in the woods.  As was before established, people did not frequent this forest unless the Prince was hunting, and so the presence of these three men was astonishingly abnormal.

Even more so were the men themselves.

One of them was the most beautiful man she had ever seen (besides Stable Boy); his hair seemed to glow in the early evening light, and his eyes were very blue.  He stood easily, with a sword and scabbard belted to his hip.  The second was a giant, or almost one, and he was quite covered in tattoos (this was after tattoos).  And the third of them almost seemed unremarkable in comparison, his glasses and simple mode of dress contrasting him sharply to the extraordinary men he was traveling with.

“Mademoiselle!” called out the beautiful one, his voice carrying the ringing power of a hymn (though hymns had not really been invented yet).

She slowed to a stop beside the three.  “What may I do to assist you?”

“We seem to have lost our way back to the town,” the giant said.  “We’re performers, and we need audiences to fill our pockets.”

“Unfortunately, you are quite far from the capital; on foot it would take you hours to reach it.”

The beautiful one nodded, and all of a sudden, the giant was behind Cosette and pulling her off of Horse.  “It is indeed unfortunate, as no one will hear you call for help.”

Something was pressed against Cosette’s mouth, and for at least a few minutes, she knew no more.

—-

“I don’t like this,” the beautiful one complained.  “It seems wrong; she’s done nothing.”

“He’ll be paying a sum of money for us to get rid of her.  He never specified how,” the one in glasses replied.  “We’ll explain our circumstances to her when she wakes, and go from there.”

“I hope you’re right,” the beautiful one replied.

The giant shook his head and sighed.  He only hoped that he would get a chance to combat the prince during this whole farce, though it seemed unlikely now.


	3. The Cliffs of Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cosette awakes and gets on somewhat well with her captors, and the group is pursued by a mysterious ship piloted by a man in black.

When Cosette awoke, she found herself on a boat.  It was a small enough boat to be piloted and sailed by one man, and that duty fell to the giant – who did not seem to be doing much at all.

The beautiful one and the man in glasses were conferring with each other, and Cosette caught snatches of their conversation:

“Combeferre, you  _know_  that this is more than that,” the beautiful one was saying.

The one in glasses – apparently called Combeferre – sighed and replied, “There will be deaths, Enjolras.  You know that.  We’re either going to go down in history as liberators or cruel monsters, and we need to be absolutely sure – if this is the course we’re taking – that the former happens.”

“I  _know that._   We’ve been searching everywhere for support – Courfeyrac and Jehan are casing the capitol, and Feuilly’s working on getting backing from Guilder; we’re going to be –“

“Absolutely fucked if we say much more,” the giant interrupted, his eyes on Cosette.  “Since the princess has woken up.”

Cosette narrowed her eyes at him.  “I’m called Cosette, if you didn’t know.”

“Oh, we know, Princess,” the giant said, grinning.

“Now what in God’s name are you talking about?” Cosette asked, turning her attention to Enjolras and Combeferre (this was of course after God).

The men paused.  “It would be unwise to divulge that information to you,” Combeferre said.

“Because you are, after all, the Princess of Hammersmith, who will someday become Queen of Florin,” Enjolras clarified.  Somehow he managed to make both titles sound like perjoratives.

Cosette leaned back against the side of the boat.  “I was a commoner once.  I may understand.”

“She could be an asset,” the giant said, raising an eyebrow.  “Kidnapped Princess, trapped in Guilder?  Start an unnecessary and bloody war between the two, causing the populace –“

“ _Quiet_ , Bahorel,” Enjolras hissed.

Cosette was not a stupid girl.  “You’re thinking of overthrowing the King.”

“The institution of the monarchy, actually,” Bahorel said, grinning.

Cosette considered this.  “Can you promise my family will remain provided for?” she asked carefully; it was after all why she had agreed to marry Prince Humperdinck.

Only in the back of her mind did she think of the stable-boy who she had so recently fallen in love with; as always, her family was her prime concern.  In the months since her coronation as Princess of Hammersmith, they had been accommodated with practically everything they could need.  Her father had the possibility of running for mayor again, after years disgraced from the position by the king’s police chief (this was only barely after police) for a petty crime years before she had been born.

Enjolras was quiet for a moment.  “If we should succeed.  You would be among our heroes, after all.”

“Then if I help you, we must succeed.”  Cosette nodded.  

She, after all, had no real desire to marry the prince, and being the princess was really rather dull; she decided then that perhaps overturning the government might be best.

After all, it was the prince who had dismissed Joly and his teacher from their posts.  And the conditions of the poor in the slums – she had delivered milk there on many an occasion before her ascension – were truly deplorable in ways that she could not fix, not as the Princess of Hammersmith.

“Do we have your support?” Combeferre asked.

“Yes.  You have my support.”

Bahorel grinned again.  “Excellent.”

“Now, we must plan.  Your support changes much, after all.  That brings our total aristocratic supporters to two; yourself, and General Lamarque.”  Enjolras sat in thought for a long moment after speaking, and before he could continue, Bahorel froze at the ship’s wheel.

Bahorel cleared his throat.  “Ah, Enjolras?”

“What?”

“We’re being pursued.”  This came from Combeferre, who was looking over the stern of the ship out into the fading afternoon light.

Cosette followed his gaze, and saw a black ship following them.

Bahorel pulled a small telescope from his belt and looked through it before saying, “It’s captained by a Man in Black.”

Enjolras nodded, entirely too calm.  “How much faster can we go without drawing attention?”

“No faster than we’re going,” Bahorel replied.

Combeferre nodded.  “Then we change course.”

Enjolras rounded on him.  “You can’t mean – not the Cliffs of Insanity!”  He grit his teeth.  “It’s too dangerous.  I won’t have it.”

“It’s the best shot we have,” Bahorel rebutted.

Cosette felt her blood run cold.  Everyone knew the Cliffs of Insanity – called such because attempting to scale them was insane, and without exception, fatal.

“I can climb them,” Bahorel.  “You and the Princess both weigh practically nothing, and Combeferre only a little more than that.  We’ll be fine; the Man in Black will be unable to follow, and we’ll escape to the Guilderian border untouched.”

“And there we can decide what to do,” Combeferre added.  “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.”

Enjolras looked over his shoulder at the pursuing ship.  Cosette followed his gaze.

“He’s gaining,” she said quietly.

“Fine.  We’ll take the Cliffs.  But you  _can’t_  fail us, Bahorel.  Not in this.”

Bahorel looked at him dubiously.  “Enjolras, you  _know me._   I can handle this, and we’ll escape.”

And so they changed course.

The ship pursuing them, however, kept following him, and was still gaining.  Enjolras fell into some reverie, and Bahorel’s mouth thinned as he kept the ship on its new course.

Combeferre, however, came to sit beside Cosette.

“I’m sorry this had to be done to you,” he said, gesturing to her bound hands.  “And I’d have them off you, but…should he by some miracle catch up to us when we’re on land, you’ll have to play the part of the damsel-in-distress.”

“I know,” Cosette said.  “Why do you think I’ve not complained about them earlier?”

Combeferre smiled.  “I like you, Cosette.”

“I’m glad.”  And she was – beyond Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet, she really had no friends.  Combeferre seemed close enough right now.

It was only a few minutes before the Cliffs came into view.  Cosette swallowed at seeing them rise so sheerly out of the ocean, so high above it, and with so few handholds, even for a man of Bahorel’s size.

They stepped out from the boat onto a tiny patch of sand before the cliff face.  Enjolras fashioned a trio of harnesses out of some lengths of rope, and offered one each to Cosette and Combeferre.  They arranged themselves in position around Bahorel, lashing themselves to him.  Cosette was pressed against his back, her arms clinging around his neck.  She did her best not to obstruct his breathing.

“I’ll warn you if you’re cutting off my air,” he said jovially.  “We’ll be fine.”

Combeferre nodded, pulling another length of rope along with them.  Cosette was not sure what it could be for, but she said a few prayers, and Bahorel began his ascent.

Cosette closed her eyes as they left the ground.  Lashed as she was to Bahorel’s back, she did not have to rest much weight on his neck, at least.  It was not what she would have considered ideal, however, and would have been ignorant not to fear for her life.

About halfway up the cliff face, Enjolras let out an exclamation of amazement.  “He’s – the Man in Black – he’s climbing!”

“Inconceivable,” Combeferre murmured, presumably looking down.

Bahorel sped up, and the trip was less smooth from there out, and punctuated by amazed and frustrated commentary from Combeferre and Enjolras.

But they reached the top.  They unlashed themselves, and Cosette finally felt safe enough to open her eyes.

 Enjolras was flushed, his pupils wide with fear.  He saw her looking at him and turned away.  Cosette kept the information in her head – he feared heights, more so than the rest.

“Time to go.  Cosette?  Can you run?”  Combeferre asked her gently.

“I should carry her, if we’re running,” Bahorel interjected.

Cosette nodded.  “That would be best.”

“I’ll stay behind, make sure he…can’t follow.”  Enjolras spoke softly, and for the first time, Cosette noticed the sword belted to his hip.  He turned back to them, and his expression was hard.  “We can’t have Cosette rescued before it’s time.”

Combeferre exhaled loudly through his nose.

“Fine.  But if you can’t find us, meet us back in Florin at the Musain, or at Feuilly’s safehouse here in Guilder.”  Combeferre seemed somewhat nervous, but he hid it well.

Then, Bahorel lifted Cosette over his shoulder, and the three loped off, leaving Enjolras behind to deal with the Man in Black.

Cosette hoped it would not come to blows, but she had the sinking feeling that it would.


	4. The Blade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Man in Black pursues the group, and first faces Enjolras, a swordsman with ideals as deadly as his blade.

 

Enjolras looked down over the cliff face; the Man in Black was still climbing.  His ascent was slower than Bahorel’s had been, but Bahorel was, after all, a giant.

He stepped carefully back from the ledge.  The drop of the cliff edge nauseated him some – heights made him uneasy, and a height this dangerous particularly so.  He sat down on a boulder and considered his surroundings. 

There was a ruin of some kind – likely a centuries-old abandoned church, from the architecture – that had several levels to it and a set of stairs that could likely be held quite easily if necessary.

Not that it would be necessary.  The overwhelming probability was that the Man in Black would plummet to his death from the cliffs.

 

Enjolras pulled his blade from his sheath to examine it.  It was, he knew, the greatest sword ever forged, forged for his father by an old man in Spain.  It was also the most expensive item Enjolras didn’t mind owning – it had gotten him through many a scrape since he left his father’s house.

Sheathing it, he returned to the edge of the cliff.

The Man in Black was still climbing.

Enjolras set his jaw.  The man was drawing close now, and Enjolras had to admit to himself that it was impressive.

He watched the Man in Black’s ascension for a few moments more, then called down to him.

“Hello there!”

The Man in Black met his eyes.  “Hello yourself.  What could you possibly want?”

“The destruction of the monarchy,” Enjolras replied honestly; after all, this man was going to die.  Who bothered lying to a man on his deathbed?

“Well I can’t help you with  _that._   I know you’ve kidnapped the princess.”

Enjolras nodded.  “Yes, we have.  She’s with my associates presently, headed for the Guilder border.  You’ll never reach them in time, even if you should survive the Cliffs.”

“You’re an optimistic one,” the Man in Black quipped.  “Why shouldn’t I catch up to them?”

“Because when you get up here, I’m going to kill you.”  Enjolras didn’t like it – he hated killing, to be completely honest.  But the Man in Black was a foe, and couldn’t be allowed to flee back to the prince with the information that they were betraying him.

“That somewhat puts a damper on our relationship.”  The Man in Black was nearly at the top of the cliffs now, only a few lengths of his body away.  “Now, tell me.  How am I to die?”

Enjolras drew his sword again.  “By the blade.  I see yours at your belt.”

“And you’re sure you can kill me?”

“I’m the best there is in the world.  I made sure of it.”  Enjolras shrugged.  Born into aristocracy as he was, he’d been allowed to study under the greatest tutors both in the arts of the mind and the arts of the blade.  Swordplay and liberty were his two great loves and always had been, and he would always be willing to use the former to ensure the latter.

The Man in Black chuckled.  “And do you have a name?”

“Enjolras,” he said.  “If you know the blade, you may know it.”

“I do.  Brilliant young Florinese swordsman, forsook his high breeding and dropped off the map entirely.”  The Man in Black was at the top of the cliff now, and about to pull himself over.

His eyes were very blue, Enjolras noted, though he wasn’t sure why he bothered to notice.

“You’re in the business of liberation, then, I take it?” the Man in Black said, when they finally stood face-to-face.  “Interesting how that goes.”

“And what of you?”

The Man in Black’s lips curved.  “I don’t believe that’s any of your business, my friend.”  He drew his sword, but Enjolras covered his hand.

“No, rest for a moment.  If I’m to kill you, I would prefer you to be at your strongest.”

“Then perhaps you should have dueled me at the base of the Cliffs, Monsieur Enjolras.”  The Man in Black sheathed his sword and stepped around Enjolras, who turned to follow his gait with his eyes.

There was something fierce in the way the Man in Black moved, and Enjolras knew this would be no quick match to be ended at first or second blood.

After a long moment, the Man in Black let out a breath.  “I’m ready.”

“Good.”

The Man in Black turned, a smile passing briefly over his lips.  “It will be a pleasure to die at the hands of a master.”

“It will be no such pleasure to kill you, I assure you.”

“But for the good of the people, you’ll do it.”

“Yes.”

They slipped into left-handed stances, and Enjolras considered the Man in Black for a moment.  His was a languid defensive stance, as though he knew that what was coming would require much movement and dexterity.

Enjolras wondered if he’d gathered that simply from the little way they’d so far interacted.

It seemed the Man in Black would have some skill, after all.

They crossed their swords, and then began.

Several steps in, Enjolras decided to engage in more conversation.  Perhaps it would distract the Man in Black, perhaps it wouldn’t, but it was worth a shot.

“You’re using Bonetti’s Defense against me,” Enjolras commented.

“It works with rocky terrain,” the Man in Black replied as he retreated up an outcropping.

Enjolras nodded, moving forward.  “Naturally, you must expect me to counter with Capo Ferro.”

“Tybalt tends to cancel out Capo Ferro, I’ve found.”  The Man in Black’s heel was at the edge of the outcropping; a drop of about six feet lay behind him.

Enjolras nodded again, then said, “Unless your opponent has studied his Agrippa.”  He lept over the Man in Black and landed gracefully on the flat ground behind him.  “Which, as you can see, I have.”

Conversation died as the battle grew more intense.  Enjolras found himself pushed back toward the edge of the Cliffs themselves, and made a quick strategic decision as his heel approached the edge.  “I must admit, you are better than I am,” he said.

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I am not left-handed,” he said, switching to his dominant hand and surging forward.  The battle again joined, Enjolras surged forward.  The Man in Black was not  _faltering_ , Enjolras found, but he still retreated.  Up the stairs they went, to the remains of a little tower. 

There was nowhere for the Man in Black to run, and Enjolras soon had him pressed against the wall.

“You are excellent.”

“I’ve worked a dozen years to become so,” Enjolras muttered, pushing harder.

The Man in Black chuckled almost breathlessly.  “However, I have to say – I’m not left-handed either.”

He shoved Enjolras back in his surprise and switched hands.   _Now_  the battle was truly joined, and Enjolras was unprepared for the man’s level of skill.

He was dueling a  _master._

“Who  _are_ you?” he asked.

“No one of consequence,” the Man in Black replied.  He flicked Enjolras’s sword from his hand, and Enjolras leapt the entire flight of stairs to retrieve it, vaulting under a tightly wound rope to reach his blade.

Enjolras looked up at him.  “I  _must_  know.”

“Get used to disappointment,” the Man in Black said, and followed him down.

They fought ruthlessly for nearly two and a half minutes longer, and then first blood was drawn, a thin cut along the side of Enjolras’s face.  Followed by a prick to his sword-wrist, and then the sword was flying out of reach.

Enjolras had been conquered.

“Do it quickly,” he said, facing his mortality.  He knelt and bared his throat.

The Man in Black walked around behind him and knelt as well.  “I would as soon deface a painting as an artist – no, a  _work of art_  as yourself,” he murmured, his breath warm against Enjolras’s ear.  Then he stood.

“But I can’t have you following me either.”

There was a flare of pain in the back of Enjolras’s skull, and then he knew no more.

The Man in Black had won.

—

As he left the unconscious man behind, the Man in Black considered him – a master, lost from the record by his own design, intent on pitching the government over – and thought to himself,  _If the circumstances had been different, I might have followed him to Hell._


End file.
